


The Fine Line

by MissMokushiroku



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: trope_bingo, Dragonborn DLC, F/F, Nightmares, Psychological Horror, References to Torture, Tentacle Monsters, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMokushiroku/pseuds/MissMokushiroku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neloth had told Nessa that she didn't have any signs of Hermaeus Mora's permanent influence. She firmly believed that he was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infection

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my [trope_bingo](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) free space under the trope "animal transformation."

The night after she had read the first Black Book, after the second time she had spoken to the Daedric Lord Hermaeus Mora himself, long after she had initially become his champion, Nessa had a nightmare.

She was in Apocrypha again. She was being watched. She was always being watched as she sought out knowledge that no mortal, not even a Dragonborn, should know. Hermaeus Mora had eyes everywhere, but she didn't care. She powered through the Seekers and the Lurkers, hungry and desperate for even small bits of knowledge that she could scrounge up—the Lord's table scraps.

She reached her destination, the Black Book at the end of the Apocryphal path. She opened it tenderly, as if it were a sleeping lover (perhaps, to her, it was); instead of showing her the knowledge she had been seeking, a single tentacle burst out from the paper as if the ancient artifact were merely a children's pop-up book, stabbing her in the chest and piercing her heart.

If this had happened while she was awake, Nessa would have died instantly. Looking back on it, she would have considered that a preferable end. Instead, alive and fully aware, she was able to stare down at the grotesque wound, at the slime-covered tentacle that had gone straight through her torso like an arrow, at the blood dripping from her body, soaking her robes, and staining the loose pages on the ground.

“ _My Lord...why?_ ” she moaned.

She was thrust onto the ground as if she were a bloody rag. Suddenly, her viewpoint was that of an outsider, and Nessa watched herself slowly bleed out, desperately gasping for breath as her life force gradually left her.

It was, in her opinion, a pathetic end for a Dragonborn.

 

* * *

 

“Are you alright, love?”

Mjoll wiped Nessa's brow softly. Apparently, Nessa had woken up with a start, sweating profusely and gasping when she felt her lover's touch. No longer was she lying in Apocrypha on a pool of her own blood next to the Black Book which had murdered her, but instead lying in the comfort of her own home on her bed next to her concerned wife.

“I'm fine. Don't worry about me.”

“You know I can't do that, dear.”

“You can try,” Nessa told Mjoll curtly, turning away.

 

* * *

 

Several days afterward, Nessa still had no idea what the nightmare meant. Was it a warning? A warning from her mind? A warning from Hermaeus Mora? Was the Hermaeus Mora in her dream, always watching, always judging, always taking note, a creation of her subconscious, or was it the prince himself? Why did she call him “my Lord?” She may have technically been his champion after she obtained the Oghma Infinium, but in her heart she still worshiped the Eight Divines. She even kept an amulet of Julianos, given to her by her parents before she began her training as a mage back in her native Wayrest, inside a small pocket inside her robes. She wasn't a daedra worshiper. She had vowed to herself long ago that, no matter the temptations she faced, she would never fall to those depths...

She tried not to think about it.

 

* * *

 

But that became exponentially harder when the dreams kept coming.

Sometimes she was in Apocrypha. Sometimes she was in Skyrim. Sometimes she was back in High Rock, at her childhood home, or the school at which she was trained in magic, or the court in Farrun where she had served faithfully for such a brief period of time...

There were tentacles. Always, always tentacles. Hermaeus Mora's tentacles. Sometimes they struck out and killed her, like in the first dream. Sometimes they grew out of her. Sometimes she became tentacles. Sometimes she became Hermaeus Mora. Sometimes she ascended above Hermaeus Mora into goddesshood. Those were the worst dreams; they always ended, no matter what, in her being captured and tortured by the entire Daedric pantheon for what seemed like an eternity, as a punishment for her insolence. Divinity, it seemed, was overrated.

 

* * *

 

Nessa continued to seek out Black Books. Everything inside her was telling her that this was wrong. She could hear herself, Mjoll, her parents, her former master, Savos Aren, Mirabelle, Tolfdir, and just about everyone else tell her that she was making and was continuing to make a huge mistake. She could imagine what would happen if word of her exploits as the champion of Hermaeus Mora got out to the College. She would be stripped of her title of Arch-Mage and references to her likely scrubbed from the records, except as possibly a cautionary tale.

She sometimes felt as if she didn't care about that as much as she should have.

 

* * *

 

Nearly every night, Nessa was plagued with “the tentacles.”

The latest one involved her transforming in the middle of Whiterun. She was on the way to buy some alchemy ingredients when she suddenly let out a primal yell and started to tear off her clothes, the sound of ripping fabric piercing through her ears.

As the guards attempted to hold her down, a large group of tentacles suddenly burst from her chest, grabbing the guards who were touching her and throwing them at the nearby buildings. She could hear their bones crack as they hit the walls.

At least their deaths were swift.

Soon her limbs themselves began to morph. Slowly and excruciatingly, her arms became blood-soaked tentacles, and then her legs. She watched more tentacles emerge from every area of her body as the citizens of Whiterun looked on in horror. The whole thing seemed to take hours, time moving in slow motion so that she could see and feel every small detail of her transformation. She experienced so many strange, foreign sensations as if they were real; her bones melted into nothing, her human skin constricted until it was absorbed by the tentacle skin, and her organs turned in on themselves as they became the gel excreting from the creature's increasingly porous surface.

Eventually, it was complete. She was no longer Nessa. She was no longer the Dragonborn. She was no longer human. She was simply a writhing mass of black tentacles laying in the middle of Whiterun's shopping district. Blood oozed out of her— _its_ —pores, ran down the streets, and then dripped onto the ground as the creature began to float, and a voice rang out:

_“Behold!”_

Was it Nessa? Was it Hermaeus Mora? Was there a difference?

The last thing she saw was Mjoll's face, red with anger, as she readied her battleaxe.


	2. Dissociation

That day, Mjoll unexpectedly woke up alone. She discovered Nessa asleep on the floor in the alchemy room half-naked and clutching her amulet of Julianos to her heart. She sat down next to her and said nothing.

  
When Nessa finally awoke, she simply stood up without a word and left to put her robes on. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of Mjoll's face, painted with worry. Nessa looked away anxiously and quickened her pace.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, the tentacles began to infect her waking hours as well.

 

* * *

 

It was rare during their adventuring that Nessa and Mjoll had time to simply be. They were bathing together at a small, isolated waterfall, enjoying the water, themselves, and each other. And how wonderful it was, too, to not have to worry about dragons, or vampires, or rogue wizards...

  
It was such a nice time they were having. They were able to talk, laugh, and play as little girls would; they were able to explore each other's bodies in ways they just didn't have the opportunity to do during their escapades.

  
Nessa had been laying on top of Mjoll when it happened. She pushed herself off of her—just a bit. _'You're a beautiful sight,'_ she was going to say.

  
Instead, her mind was filled with visions. Horrifying visions. Visions of her tearing her own wife apart, limb by limb. Even for her, used to blood, gore, and violence as she was, watching herself—so to speak—brutalize someone so dear to her was terrifying. It made her queasy, and instead of smiling like she was going to, Nessa ended up staring slack-jawed at Mjoll, her fingernails digging into Mjoll's shoulders.

  
“Is...is something wrong, love?”

  
Nessa snapped out of it. “Oh. Uh...I hear something. Out there. It's probably going to try to kill us. I think we should leave, don't you?”

  
“I don't hear anything.”

  
“Well, um...we should go, just in case, right? Just to be safe?”

  
“...of course.”

 

* * *

 

Nessa considered herself strong-willed, but even she tried to erase the memory of that night's dream from her head.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I believe I've discovered a new form of silence. Some philosophers...” Et cetera, et cetera. It seemed relatively innocuous. “If you allow me, I'd like to envelop you in the eighth form, to study the mental effects.” Okay, not that innocuous. But Nessa, devoted to magical research as she was, would do nearly anything for the cause. Even if she hadn't known that there were multiple forms of silence in the first place. Let alone seven. Or eight.

  
It would probably be mildly unpleasant, she thought. She would be glad when it was over. Even if it backfired, Neloth was skilled enough to be able to reverse the effects. The potential benefits of this outweighed the potential drawbacks.

  
If she had known what would happen, she would not have come to that conclusion.

 

* * *

 

 

Nessa knew what had happened to her as soon as the spell had hit her.

  
She had tentacles coming out of her eyes. Gods, she had _tentacles_ coming out of her eyes. _Tentacles_. Coming out of her _eyes_.

  
“Master Neloth, what have you done to her? What are those things growing out of her eyes?” Wasn't it obvious? She couldn't speak, but she knew.

  
_It's happening. The dreams were a prophesy._

  
“It's nothing that I can't fix.”

  
_I'm becoming the monster..._

  
“The spell, that is. I think I can fix the spell.”

  
_I was the monster. My physical form is catching up with me._

  
“It should only take a couple more years.”

  
_A couple more years...a long time, perhaps? Or short?_

  
“But, first, I need some data. Try wiggling them.”

  
_I didn't prepare for this eventuality. Flawed. But I..._

  
“No, don't shake your fist! Wiggle the tentacle.. _.things_...where your eyes used to be!”

  
_I still have a fist? Surprising. Take note._

  
“I think I'm going to be sick.”

  
_The assistant. He hasn't seen the things I have. He doesn't know._

  
“Hm...from the way they are waving about, I am assuming that they aren't under your control.”

  
_Control. Control. Such a concept. Control!_

  
“I can see now that your tongue is also...well, it's probably best if I _don't_ say.”

  
_No, no, no, know, know..._

  
“Ah...don't bother trying to scream, though. It looks like it's beginning to wear off.”

  
_It's...over? That isn't how it goes. No, no, this isn't how it goes at all._

  
“Is it over yet? Does she have eyes again?”

  
_A shame, perhaps._

  
“Hm...your eyes appear to be completely back to normal.”

  
“I think you owe me for that spell.” All things considered, Nessa had regained coherency remarkably quickly. However, while Nessa was later able to recall the effects of Neloth's spell and her thought processes, she strangely was unable to remember anything beyond that line until she had—apparently—made it outside and immediately fell face-first into the ash.

  
Throughout all this, Mjoll was waiting outside Tel Mithryn, as she usually did when they were visiting. She had been looking into the distance opposite the compound when he heard a door opening and closing, and then a dull “thump” as Nessa fell and rolled down the front steps.

  
“Nessa!” Mjoll ran over to her body. “Are you alright, love?”

  
Nessa pushed her upper body up with her arms, spitting out a considerable amount of ash during the process. “I'm fi—“ She coughed loudly, for a full minute, getting the last of it out of her throat. “Fine. I'm fine.” She sneezed. “Just woozy.”

  
“What did he do to you in there?” Mjoll asked.

  
“He tested out a spell on me,” Nessa replied, sitting up and rubbing ash off away from her eyes. “It was supposed to envelop me in a new form of silence—“ Mjoll's expression was blank. “—but knocked me unconscious for a few minutes instead.”

  
“By the Nine, love. You need to stop letting that man experiment on you like that.”

  
“I'm either a very good or a very bad test subject, I think. You're right, though, I've never had one of those spells actually do what the caster said they would. Could you help me up?”

  
“Of course.”

  
Mjoll held up her hand, and Nessa took it; quickly Mjoll had pulled her wife into an embrace—not a particularly comfortable embrace, considering her heavy armor, but the love the two shared with each other outshined the minor headache caused by resting one's head against a bonemold breastplate. Mjoll tenderly grabbed Nessa's hand and dipped her head so she could whisper into her ear:

  
“You've been lying to me, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Wayrest](http://uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Wayrest) and [Farrun](http://uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Farrun) are cities in High Rock, home of the Bretons. If you haven't guessed, Nessa is a Breton herself.


End file.
